


Love, Measured By Coffee Spoons

by HermioneJeanWayne



Series: Hermione's Coffees and Teas [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Coffee Addict Tony Stark, Coffee Shops, F/M, Gen, M/M, Not Epilogue Compliant, Post-Hogwarts, cannot believe that was actually a tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-10-23 17:53:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10724274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HermioneJeanWayne/pseuds/HermioneJeanWayne
Summary: The one where, after 10 years as an Auror, Hermione has had quite enough of being The Brightest Witch of Her Age and decides to leave the Ministry and return to her first love. No, no, not Ron — are you insane? Coffee. Hermione’s always had a love affair with coffee. You think the Time-Turner was the only thing that got her through her classes in third year? Ha! Coffee was at least as important.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DramioneConvert](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DramioneConvert/gifts).



> My first fanfic, period, and the first of what I hope will be many in this fandom and others. The Harry Potter series has been a massive part of my life since I was 11. I'm 31 now, so that's actually one of my longest relationships. I hope my fellow Potterheads enjoy this little look into my imagination. I'm gifting this to DramioneConvert because she's one of the best friends I could ever hope for, both online and off. And honestly, I really did start writing this for her. 
> 
> I hope to make this the first work in a series, and I would love it if y'all would let me know what you think. Thank you!

“That’s it,” Hermione said to herself as she furiously but uselessly cast Scourgify at her own Auror’s robes, covered with a disgustingly spell-resistant mixture of hippogriff dung, spiked butterbeer and vomit. “That is absolutely it.” 

When she and some fellow Aurors, including Harry, had gone to investigate rumors of illegal hippogriff fighting in the dodgier parts of London, they’d found exactly what they’d expected — noble animals forced into fighting in savage duels.

Unfortunately, they’d also found a crowd of drunken wizards betting on the fights.

The wizards stupid enough to try to drunkenly bully the Aurors were quickly shown the error of their ways, but one particular tosser had emptied the contents of his stomach at (and on) Hermione’s feet.

Sadly, that wasn’t even the most disgusting thing that had happened to her within the past week. These days, being an Auror wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. After completing her NEWTs at Hogwarts a decade ago, Hermione had loved being an Auror — the sense of continuing to be on the front lines, working to keep the wizarding world safe. But then the days began to bleed into each other, the months and years followed suit, and one day Hermione suddenly realized she hadn’t truly been happy in a very long time.

Well. Time for that to change.

Giving up on her stained robes, Hermione straightened, gathered her nerves and marched in the direction of Shacklebolt’s office. 

****

“Hermione! HERMIONE!”

Hermione winced, but didn’t stop spelling her belongings into her trusty handbag.

“Harry. Knew I’d probably be seeing you soon. Before you say anything, let me just say that my mind is made up.”

Hermione looked up and met her oldest friend’s eyes. Harry looked as if he’d been Stupefied.

“But… why? You’ve always seemed so content with our work.”

“I thought I was. But I’ve realized I’m tired of it. I’m tired of being Hermione Granger, brightest witch of her age. I’m tired of being one of the ‘Golden Trio.’ I’m tired of being a Ministry catch-all, the person who can and will take on any project, no matter the scope or deadline. I just want to live MY life, not be beholden to everyone else’s.”

As she expected, Harry’s green eyes softened.

“I understand. And you deserve all that. But you can’t blame a guy for being surprised.”

“I don’t. And I would have told you. But I really just made the decision today.”

Harry was quiet for a moment, then he chuckled. “Well, however my face looked, I can personally guarantee you that Kingsley looked much worse — like he’d been hit with one of Ginny’s Bat-Bogey Hexes. I thought he was going to faint dead away right in front of me.”

The two shared a laugh at that. Still smiling, Harry asked, “Well, what’s next?”

His smile changed to a puzzled stare when Hermione airily replied, “I thought I’d open a coffee shop.”

****

Although Hermione’s parents might have been dentists, they were also caffeine addicts who thought nothing of adding shots of espresso to their morning cups of black coffee. Their teeth only stayed white through the liberal use of whitening toothpaste, applied at least three times a day.

Hermione picked up the habit of drinking coffee every morning when she was 8. At that age, it was more like caffeinated milk with a few cubes of sugar thrown in for good measure. Her tastes matured as she got older, and at Hogwarts she often started her breakfasts in the Great Hall with a strong cup of coffee. She wouldn’t have made it through third year without her customary three cups a day — the Time-Turner got her to her classes, but coffee was what kept her awake through them.

After Hermione left Hogwarts and started working at the Ministry of Magic, she found herself taking any opportunity to return to the school for visits. She loved to reminisce on walks through Hogsmeade, often stopping in The Three Broomsticks or Honeydukes for a quick treat. On one such visit about three years after beginning her work at the Ministry, she was shocked to see a “closing soon — retiring to the Isle of Wight” sign on the door of Madame Puddifoot’s Tea Shop. Before she could think better of it, she stepped inside.

“Hermione, what a treat to see you back in Hogsmeade,” Madame said, smiling serenely.

“Um, thank you, Madame Puddifoot. I couldn’t help but notice that your shop’s closing. Congratulations on retirement! I was wondering what you planned for this space.”

“Well, I’m planning to sell it. I haven’t gotten around to figuring out the details yet, but I don’t have any interest in holding on to it,” the older woman said.

“Of course. That makes sense. Well, I just wanted to stop in. Good luck with retirement,” Hermione said, pulling her mittens back on and waving goodbye.

Not two minutes later, she was back. “Madame, would you permit me to make an offer? I think we could come to a satisfactory agreement between us.”

Several hours later, after the two had agreed upon terms and signed a contract, Hermione walked back to the castle in a daze. She couldn’t really explain, even to herself, why it had suddenly been so important not to let Madame Puddifoot’s get away — all she knew was that she felt like she HAD to own it, had to have a space close to Hogwarts that was her own. She certainly didn’t have any idea what she would do with the building — and, for the next seven years, she fought against those who practiced the Dark Arts and barely gave a thought to the old tea shop. Aberforth used it for storage and kept it clean and in good shape, ready for the day Hermione finally decided to start getting her money’s worth out of the place.

Even though he hadn’t seen Hermione in several months, Aberforth’s blue eyes betrayed no surprise the day she came knocking at his door, saying apologetically that she’d be more than happy to help him move his belongings somewhere else, but she needed the space empty so she could start renovations. Madame Puddifoot’s would soon become Hermione’s Coffees and Teas. 

****

The first day the shop was open, Hermione made sure the overstuffed couches and leather chairs all had red-and-gold pillows and throws for maximum customer comfort. She’d made decor choices based on her memories of the Gryffindor common room, and was pleased with how cozy everything seemed. And, because she was still Hermione, one entire wall of the shop housed part of her book collection.

Not like any of it mattered, though — certainly no one was actually coming through that door. And for 17 minutes, she was right.

As she heard footfalls and the door’s telltale creak, her head snapped up and her eyes met with a welcome sight — her two oldest friends.

“Harry! Ron! You came! But shouldn’t you both be at work?”

“It’s no problem — I’ve been working overtime, so I just took the morning off. Can’t do without my daily dose of caffeine anyway,” Ron said. “Romilda said she wished she could be here as well, but I’ll bring her one day soon.”  
Harry’s eyes met Hermione’s, and they both grinned.

“Better make sure she doesn’t slip a love potion into your latte,” said Harry to Hermione’s laughter and Ron’s good-natured groans.

“Seriously, mate, come off it. Romilda’s changed! My wife doesn’t need to slip me love potions!”

Hermione let Harry and Ron’s teasing and bickering fade into the background as she went to start their coffees. She knew Harry’s preferences from their years of friendship and bringing each other coffees at work, and she’d routinely brewed Ron coffee in the mornings during their two-year relationship. Listening to him now, though, she knew they’d made the right decision to just be friends.

“Here, Harry — caramel latte and blueberry muffin for you. And Ron, here’s your hazelnut macchiato and cinnamon scone.”

Harry nodded his thanks, while Ron immediately crammed half the scone into his mouth.

Yep, definitely the right decision. 

****

Harry and Ron were just the beginning. Turned out that using “Hermione” in the shop’s name was a good way to build up buzz, even without the “Granger,” and a steady stream of customers came through the door, even though the weather was foul. Many of them were there to see Hermione Friggin’ Granger, Hero of Hogwarts, in the flesh. Whatever, Hermione didn’t care what got them in the door as long as the drinks kept them coming back.

However, after a few hours of nonstop brewing coffee, making change and bussing tables, she admitted to herself that if business stayed brisk, she wouldn’t be able to do it all herself like she had envisioned — even with the help of her wand. She could also admit that first opening the shop on a weekend when Hogwarts students were free to visit might have been an idea that worked a little too well.

Fortunately, she saw a tall witch with a familiar pair of square-shaped spectacles walk through the door, and she knew reinforcements had arrived.

“Minerva! I didn’t expect to see the headmistress of Hogwarts here so soon! Sit, and I’ll bring you a cup. How does a London Fog latte sound?”

“That sounds lovely, Miss Granger — or, I suppose I should say, Hermione. Old habits die hard, you know,” McGonagall said as she marched toward a table, students scattering in her wake.  


There was a short lull, so Hermione sat when she delivered the drink.

“Minerva, would you happen to know any seventh-year students who might be looking for a bit of pocket change? I think I might be able to use a little help here in the shop, especially on weekends.”  
McGonagall’s furrowed brow quickly smoothed out, and she gave Hermione one of her rare smiles.

“I believe I may have just the students in mind,” she said.

Later that day, Hermione was restocking the bakery case with her limited-but-yummy selection of muffins, scones and biscuits when someone cleared a throat, rather loudly, right into her ear. The ensuing muscle spasm resulted in that same throat giving a surprised giggle.

“Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. Although I didn’t think I could scare you, seeing as how you’re … well, you know who you are,” said a dark-haired teenage boy with brown eyes and what could be loosely defined as facial hair, if Hermione squinted. “Honestly, everybody knows who you are — even if there wasn’t an entire History of Magic lesson about you, how could anyone miss the hair?”

“I do indeed know who I am,” Hermione said matter-of-factly (and a bit tartly, to be honest), once she had collected herself again. “And who might you be?”

“Anthony Stark. But you can call me Tony,” he said with a wink, pulling his green-and-silver scarf from around his neck.

In spite of herself, Hermione had to smile. And then she realized there was another boy standing behind Tony. Despite his impressive stature, she had missed him at first because he had his head buried in his hands. From what she could see, however, his cheeks were flushing impressively.

“Oh my Godric, Tony, what even,” he mumbled, then seemed to feel Hermione’s gaze on him and tentatively lifted his head. When his eyes met hers, it was as if someone cast an Incendio spell on his cheeks and ears — they matched his red-and-gold jumper.

“Miss Granger, ma’am, please excuse us,” he croaked. Clearing his throat, he continued, “I’m sorry. My name is Steve Rogers. Headmistress McGonagall said you might be looking for some help here on the weekends. I’d certainly be interested in that opportunity.”

Hermione could already tell that Steve would be perfect for what she needed. She took another look at Tony, saw him looking at Steve with a small, fond smile, and knew that Tony was there because Steve was. But that was OK. She could work with that.

“Can you both start next weekend?”

****

After a few weeks, Hermione’s was as busy as ever. It was a favorite spot for students to study, especially since seventh-years now had the privilege of coming into Hogsmeade any weekends they liked. Tony charmed the customers, caused small disasters and made Steve blush even as he cast spells to create picture-perfect latte art, and the two of them kept Hermione smiling.

She made a rule that people could borrow any book from her collection — she only required that they leave books to replace the ones taken. McGonagall stopped in whenever she was in Hogsmeade, and Hermione also saw Professor Longbottom quite a few times. Harry and Ron came back often, once with Romilda and Ginny in tow — Hermione made sure to have Steve draw some hearts on Ron and Romilda’s coffees, and Tony winked at Ron before noisily announcing, “Here’s your love potions, one with a shot of caramel and the other with hazelnut.” It had been a long time since she had heard Harry laugh that loudly. The same was true of Ginny, if her look of pleased surprise and whispered “Thanks, ‘Mione — you know the job can be a tough one. It’s good to hear him laugh” was any indication.

The quiet life suited her surprisingly well. She was always available if a student had a question about Arithmancy, Charms or Transfiguration (although she begged off any queries about Divination), she drank entirely too much coffee and tea, and she fell asleep as soon as her head hit her pillow every night.

It was a comfortable life, bordering on complacent. But the universe long ago decided Hermione Granger wasn’t cut out for comfort or complacency, so things quite rightly got bollocksed soon after. 

*****

Had Hermione been watching, the first sign that everything was about to go to hell naturally came with Tony.

“There’s a rumor that we’re getting a new Potions master,” he said. “Supposedly someone who went to Hogwarts several years ago.”

“Mmmmm,” Hermione said, not really paying attention. “About time for them to fill that post after the last one nearly blew up all the Hufflepuff first-years.”

Then Steve began lecturing Tony on not inappropriately flirting with customers, Tony said, “You’re right — I’d rather inappropriately flirt with you,” Steve started to stammer (and blush) and the subject of the new Potions master was summarily dropped.

The second sign, in hindsight, was even more obvious.

McGonagall sat in a comfortable leather chair, sipping at her London Fog and trading idle chit-chat with Hermione as the younger witch tidied up near the end of a workday.

“We have a new Potions master coming in,” McGonagall said. “He starts next week. I have high hopes for this one. You know we’ve been through several since Severus, and none of them have been able to stay the course. But I think this one feels like he’s coming home.”

Hermione’s brain wasn’t entirely offline, as she made note that the new professor was a “he” and apparently did have a prior connection to Hogwarts. However, in the time it took her to formulate some questions for McGonagall, new customers came in. By the time she took their orders and got the machine brewing, she looked up to see the headmistress wave as she headed out the door.

“Shame I didn’t catch the fellow’s name,” Hermione mused. “Might be someone I know.”

Of course, it was. Damn it all.

The third sign walked in early one morning, before Hermione could even cast Lumos on the shop lights. In fact, she had just unlocked the door, and was honestly a bit peeved that someone would have the nerve to walk in when the shop obviously wasn’t open just yet, although she was secretly a little gratified that her coffee was so good that some people apparently just couldn’t wait — “Oh, my Godric.”

Draco Malfoy stared back at her. He bit his lip a tad uncertainly, but suddenly his mouth relaxed into a slight smirk.

“Granger. It’s been a while.”

Thirty seconds later, Hermione realized two things: One, she still hadn’t replied; and two, she was still staring at Malfoy’s mouth. Blushing furiously (huh, Steve must have been rubbing off on her after all), she gathered her wits enough to say, “Malfoy. Indeed it has.”

The awkward silence lasted another 30 seconds. Finally, Hermione remembered that she was there to sell coffee, and said, “Can I get you anything? Coffee or tea? The blueberry muffins are quite good, and I do have scones. Cinnamon apple ones, in fact. I seem to remember you liking apples when we were students together. But that was so long ago, perhaps your tastes have changed.”

Oh God, she was babbling.

However, Malfoy didn’t wear the characteristic sneer she was expecting. Rather, his smirk had softened just a bit, almost enough to be called a smile. Almost. “No, I still do like apples. I’ll take one of those scones, and a London Fog latte. Headmistress McGonagall’s mentioned several times how she enjoys those.”

With that, Hermione’s synapses started firing again, and her eyes widened as it hit her.

“YOU’RE the new Potions master?”

“In the flesh. Bottling fame, brewing glory, putting stoppers on death and all that,” Malfoy said lightly, but he wasn’t almost-smiling anymore.

“I—sorry, Malfoy. I didn’t mean that the way it must have sounded. In school, you were always quite talented with Potions. My surprise has nothing to do with your acumen,” she said. “It’s just been so long since I’ve seen you. I’m not even sure exactly what you’ve been doing since Hogwarts.”

There was the almost-smile again, and Hermione surprised herself by feeling unaccountably pleased.

“I actually have been working as a sort of wizard pharmacist. I created and dispensed potions for years. At first it was hard going because of my, ahem, reputation,” he said. “But McGonagall actually began ordering from me, and Xenophilius and Luna and some other people, and word got around. I was doing fairly well for myself, but when McGonagall called to ask if I’d be interested in the Potions position, I couldn’t very well turn her down.”

“Well, I don’t know many who can turn Minerva down for anything,” Hermione said, also almost-smiling (oh, who was she kidding, that was an honest-to-goodness grin).

Just then, several new customers filed in. “I should go, but please sit and make yourself comfortable. I’ll bring your food in just a minute. I’m … glad you came in. Good luck with the new job.”

Malfoy proceeded to do as she suggested, sitting with his refreshments and a new issue of The Daily Prophet. Hermione glanced his way several times, but soon was consumed with the everyday minutiae of running a business. The next time she looked over, he’d gone. However, when she walked over to retrieve his plate and mug, she found a small handwritten note: “Granger — Please call me Draco.”

That niggling sense of being unaccountably pleased was back.


	2. Chapter 2

The thing about it, Hermione mused while grinding coffee beans a few weeks later, was that Malfoy — no, Draco — had always been blessed with good looks. His alabaster skin, clear silvery blue eyes and lean frame ensured that.

Actually, while Hermione had been more than happy to give him that well-deserved punch in third year, she remembered that a very small (hormonal, no doubt) part of her had been hoping the blow wouldn't permanently damage his well-sculpted nose. 

So Draco being handsome wasn't new. Draco being attractive, however, was quite new. 

It had been an eventful few weeks. As one might expect of the Brightest Witch of Her Age, Hermione had found new and inventive ways to embarrass herself almost every time Draco had come in. There was the time she’d tripped over a student’s Firebolt, splashing chai tea on Draco’s robes. She’d just barely been able to squeak out a “Tergeo” to clean his outfit before dashing back behind the relative safety of the counter to internally flail in embarrassment.

(What with all the internal flailing, she’d missed the way one corner of Draco’s mouth quirked up in amusement.)

Then there was the time she’d asked Steve to spell some hearts onto a caramel latte she thought was going to a sweet Ravenclaw couple on the loveseat in the corner. Naturally, she’d gotten the orders mixed up, and her ears still burned when she recalled the way Draco’s eyebrows rose in surprise when Steve served him the latte and told him the hearts were “compliments of Miss Granger.”

(She turned away in mortification too quickly to notice how his surprised look morphed into a look of speculation.)

It was best not even to speak of the incident in which Hermione, after deciding for some godforsaken reason that the books on her wall needed to be organized by the Dewey Decimal System (she was still a Muggle at heart, dammit!), promptly fell off the ladder and right into the arms of — you guessed it — Draco Malfoy. Unfortunately, the hands at the ends of said arms were holding a plate with buttered cinnamon apple scones. By the time Hermione finally clambered off of Draco, they both had crumbs in their _hair_.

(Consumed as Hermione was with the desire to spontaneously combust on the spot, she completely neglected to wonder why Draco was standing so closely in the first place. She also failed to notice how he clutched at her for a few seconds longer than necessary before doing his best to help her up.)

And now he came in almost every day! Was there no end to her mortification?

At first, Hermione assumed he was simply stopping in because he had business in Hogsmeade and wanted a pick-me-up, but he came in so often that it was obvious he was coming specifically to … get coffee. And to have his clothes ruined free of charge, apparently. Maybe he was just looking for an excuse to update his wardrobe. Right? Surely he couldn’t be coming in for any other reason. Her coffee was amazing, after all. But every single day?

“Yeah, no, boss. Pretty sure he’s not just coming in for the coffee. Maybe for the unintended laughs. You ask me, though, I think he might just be trying to flirt with the barista. And I don’t mean me. Or Steve,” Tony said, winking.

“Although I’m pretty sure everyone else tries to flirt with Steve. I mean, have you seen those shoulders? So much broad.”

Wait. Had she said that out loud?

“Um… yeah. You OK there, boss? You’re not usually so, um, flaky,” said Tony, actually looking a bit concerned.

Hermione buried her face in her hands. Tony Stark was calling her flaky. What had her life come to?

“Again with the verbalizing thoughts you probably mean to keep private,” said Tony, now looking highly amused. “But look. Every time Professor Potions comes in, he tries to strike up a conversation with you. And if you’re busy, he skulks around taking tiny sips of his coffee and nibbling at his food until you’re free, then he tries to strike up a conversation with you. It’s a cunning ploy, sure, but not all that subtle.”

Hermione tried to will her flushing cheeks into submission and actually use her brain. Tony did have a point; on the few occasions when Hermione hadn’t thoroughly embarrassed herself in front of Draco, she had found herself drawn into discussion with him. As she recalled the last time they’d talked, she realized that she often found herself amazed by this version of Draco Malfoy.

“Hermione, is that a book of T.S. Eliot poetry over on the wall?”  
“…Yes. You know him? I do love his poetry, especially ‘The Love Song of —‘“  
“—J. Alfred Prufrock.’ That’s my favorite as well. In fact, when I first came into your shop, it made me think of the line that goes, ‘I have measured out my life with coffee spoons,’” Draco said.  
“Yes! I always think of that as well,” said Hermione, smiling broadly.  
If Hermione hadn’t known better, she might have thought that just a hint of color came into Draco’s cheeks at that. 

Truth be told, that’s where her attraction to him had sparked; she’d always known Draco was intelligent, but had never truly appreciated just how much so until now. He kept up with her in a way that most people couldn’t — certainly in a way that her romantic partners had never been able to. It was thrilling and truly attractive in equal measure. 

Honestly, though, she didn’t really know what to do with how she felt. She was smart enough to recognize and acknowledge her own feelings, but no matter how Draco had changed, he was still Draco Malfoy. They still had a history, and honestly, that punch in third year was really the high point of the relationship up until now. 

Bummer.

****

The next day was actually quite slow. Winter holidays were coming up soon, and almost all the students were holed up in the castle studying for end-of-term tests. Tony and Steve were at the shop, but there hadn’t been any customers for a couple of hours. Steve had already completed all his work tasks and was passing the time trying to study.

(Trying was certainly the operative word, because Tony was passing the time trying to distract Steve by conjuring little red-and-gold men to fly around the Gryffindor’s head. Naturally, he was succeeding.)

Finally, Hermione decided to take pity and send the boys on, even though it was still an hour before closing time. It didn’t look like there would be any more customers, but if there were, Hermione could handle them herself.

As the door closed behind her gently bickering employees, Hermione smiled to herself and began casting spells to wash the dishes, scrub the floors and wipe the tables. Satisfied that she had everything well in hand, she stepped over to her book collection and chose one she’d never read — “To Kill a Mockingbird.” Holding it up in front of her, she studied the cover.

“You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view. Until you climb inside of his skin and walk around in it,” said a familiar voice.

The voice’s familiarity did not stop Hermione from letting out an undignified little shriek, whirling around and blindly chucking the book in the direction from whence the voice came.

“Oooof! Ughhhhhh.”

“Draco? Ugh! I’m so sorry! It should be impossible, but I keep finding varied ways to hurt you,” Hermione said. “That said, don’t sneak up on me like that!”

Even bent over at the waist and clutching his stomach, Draco managed to strike a dry tone. “Lesson learned, Hermione, that I can assure you. If you’re that deadly with a book now, you must have been absolute hell on wheels as an Auror.”

Hermione rushed over and helped Draco onto one of her butter-soft sofas, then sat beside him.

“I would offer you some coffee and pastries, but I’m not sure that’s such a great idea right now,” she said.

“No, let’s allow my internal organs a little time to shift back into place before we go on with all that,” Draco said in a slightly amused tone.

The two lapsed into a comfortable silence for a little while, then—

“Draco, can I ask you a question? It feels like it may be an invasive one.”

Draco bit his lip, considering. Hermione held her peace. She wouldn't threaten this fragile — friendship? — by pushing too much, too soon. She would let Draco decide what he could handle.

Letting out his breath in a rush of air, Draco nodded.

"You knew that T.S. Eliot poem well enough to quote from it. And when I was holding that book, what you were saying behind me distinctly sounded like another quote — I assume from the book," she said, looking Draco full in the face. 

"How do you know these things about Muggle culture? I've always had the impression you considered anyone other than Purebloods to be beneath you. I'm obviously wrong — at least, I'd like to believe I am. But I'm certainly curious."

While Hermione was speaking, Draco had dropped his eyes, finally closing them. He was silent for a few seconds -- just long enough that Hermione thought he wouldn't answer. She looked away, trying to figure out how to defuse the tension between them, when Draco opened his mouth.

"I don't know that much about Muggle culture, to be honest. Just a little about Muggle literature. My mother ... she was never the perfect Pureblood everyone believed her to be. Growing up, Bellatrix and Andromeda commanded most of the available attention — Bellatrix because she actually fit the Black idea of the perfect Pureblood, and Andromeda because she was considered the black sheep of the family. My mother was content to stay in the background, quiet and watchful. But everyone thought quiet meant obedient. Not true — she just carried out her rebellions in a different manner," Draco said. 

Hermione was riveted, her eyes taking in every movement of Draco's expressive face.

"The Black family home was not very far from a Muggle library, ironically. Every once in a while, when Bellatrix and Andromeda were embroiled in one of their violent arguments, my mother would take the opportunity to slip out, unnoticed, and take a few minutes to browse the books at the library. She would take one or two that caught her fancy, read them, and eventually return them and choose others when she could. It might be weeks or months before she was able to return, but she kept doing this until she became engaged to my father. At that point, she knew it was too risky to continue. But she had two books she loved and hung on to, even though it was dangerous. She hid them in plain sight, casting spells to make them appear as two of her old journals. One of those books was Jane Austen's 'Pride and Prejudice.' The other was a collection of T.S. Eliot poems."

At that, Hermione let out a little exhale of surprise. Draco's eyes refocused, caught on her gaze, and he grinned.

"My mother and I have always been close — far closer than me and my father. After the war, my mother became far more independent. For all intents and purposes, she was the head of the household, and my father didn't question it. He knew she was the only reason we weren't all rotting in Azkaban, and his head was reeling from the Dark Lord's loss. He became a sort of ghost, wandering the halls of the manor from time to time. You probably know that he died a couple of years after the war. It wasn’t anything sudden. He just sort of … faded away.”

Hermione nodded. It had been in The Daily Prophet when Lucius died, but both Draco and his mother had refused comment.

“After his death, my mother sat me down, handed me those two books, and told me that she had failed in always letting my father fill my head with these ideas of blood purity and never giving me the opportunity to realize that there were different ideas out there. She told me about her secret trips to the library and how those books introduced her to the Muggle world, how they brought her to realize that the only real difference between wizardkind and Muggles is that we have the ability to use magic and they don’t. We’re all people, in the end. She said that had she been a smarter woman, a stronger one, she’d have followed in Andromeda’s footsteps, but she could begin to right some of her wrongs by giving me the chance to make up my own mind about Pureblood ideals. Since that conversation, I’ve been visiting Muggle libraries and bookshops, just picking up books here and there, trying to learn more about them. In the process, I’ve learned a lot more about myself,” Draco said, slowly, cautiously raising his hand to Hermione’s cheek.

“Those Pureblood ideas are absolute bollocks. Look at you, Hermione. Look at what an amazing witch you are. Best and brightest of our year, a hero the likes of which we’ll probably never see again. You, born of two Muggles, saved two Purebloods’ asses time and time again. You helped defeat the Darkest wizard in our history with your brains, ingenuity and magical talent. You are proof positive that those ideas are idiotic — that I was idiotic for saying those things to you throughout our time at Hogwarts.”

There, Draco paused and dropped both his eyes from Hermione’s face and his hand from her cheek. In a voice close to a whisper, he continued.

“Once I realized what a fool I’d been, I looked back at my memories of Hogwarts and realized that, underneath all of my bluster, I had always been hopelessly attracted to you,” he said.

Suddenly, he smiled wryly.

“I guess there’s a good chance I’ve already humiliated myself beyond all reason here, so I might as well go for broke. I was sort of like Mr. Darcy, really. You’re a woman, I’m sure you know the quote — ‘I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.’”

At that, Hermione finally found her voice.

“You have got to be KIDDING me! What even is my life right now?!”

Draco looked very, very confused and, to be honest, a little frightened. “I”m sorry?”

“You! You with your big brain and your killer eyes, you show up here in my shop, and you talk about literature — LITERATURE! — with me, and you smile when I’m clumsy, and you like my coffee, and you charm the absolute hell out of me, and THEN you have the absolute NERVE to give me the greatest compliments I’ve ever received in my life, and THEN! THEN! You dare to quote FITZWILLIAM DARCY at me?! Are you trying to kill me? Bloody hell,” Hermione ranted.

“I’m not certain, but it feels like you said some positive things there in the midst of all that,” Draco said.

“Hell yes, I did,” said Hermione as she fisted Draco’s shirt and pulled him in for quite the thorough snog. When she finally let him go, she looked him straight in his dazed (heart-stoppingly gorgeous) eyes and firmly said, “Let that be a lesson to you. Quote classic literature to me again, especially Austen, and I’ll not be responsible for my actions.”

Finally breaking out of his stupor, Draco grinned. “Lesson learned. You know, up until this very moment, I thought Jane Austen was overrated. However, I find my opinion changing. I think I’ll have to reread her books again.”

“Lucky for you, I just happen to have every single one of them over there in my collection,” Hermione said, pressing another kiss to Draco’s cheek. “We can reread them together.”

****

McGonagall breathed a sigh of relief as she stepped into Hermione’s. It had been a stressful few weeks at the castle, what with the students and professors all on edge as the end of the term neared. She had been looking forward to getting away for a London Fog and a pastry, or perhaps a shortbread biscuit.

As she expected, the shop was basically deserted. Just a couple of townspeople relaxing, and one lone customer standing at the counter — lounging at the counter really might be a better descriptor, she thought. That lone customer looked rather familiar, however.

“Professor Malfoy? I’m surprised to see you down here, with end-of-term approaching so rapidly,” she remarked.

Draco whirled around at the sound of her voice, and his pale complexion blushed beet red. McGonagall found herself almost charmed by the unexpectedly boyish reaction.

“Headmistress! I had a break until after lunch, so I thought I’d make my way down for a coffee. Can’t live without the stuff, you know,” he said.

At that moment, Hermione stepped back up to the counter, bearing a steaming mug and a scone. McGonagall watched her hand the order over to Draco with a beaming smile and a wink, and watched Draco’s cheeks redden further even as he smiled back.

_Oh_ , she thought. _Well, good for them. They certainly both deserve a little happiness._

“From my vantage point, it doesn’t look like it’s the coffee you can’t live without,” McGonagall said, with just the barest upturn of her lips. “Good show, Professor. You seem to have adjusted quite well to life back at Hogwarts. But for Merlin’s sake, if you blush any more we’ll have to use Aguamenti on your face!”

True to her words, Draco’s cheeks were now flaming red, and Hermione was laughing so hard she was bent double at the waist.

“I’ll have a London Fog to go, if you don’t mind, Hermione. Professor, I’ll see you back at the castle,” McGonagall said.

A few minutes later, she walked out the shop door with a warm cup in her hand, the sound of Hermione’s continued laughter and Draco’s murmured voice in her ears and a large, secret smile on her face. After all, she did so love it when her students found happiness beyond Hogwarts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Like I said, I hope this becomes the first work in a series. I'd love to hear any feedback you may have, so drop a comment or a kudos if you want!

**Author's Note:**

> I've already finished the fic — Chapter 2 will be posted later this week. Hopefully you enjoyed it enough to watch out for that!


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